Sunrise
by Emsta
Summary: A daughter arrives home just on dawn, and her father watches, making sure she's safe. Lame summary, better story


**Disclaimer**: Don't own. Never will. If you think I do, the little white men and their coats will be arriving soon.

**A/N**: Beginning to think I should have taken Jack instead. He's so interesting to write. Oh, and if someone has a better title, I would love you forever!

**Word Count**: 1232

The sun lay just beyond the horizon, about to rise and bring forth the new day. It sat there, waiting to bathe the world in a soft, warm glow. In that magical moment between night and day, a child scampered from the shed that lay just beyond the sun's reach, and back towards the homestead. She crept in the screen door that had been the only barrier against the warm night air, over the threshold and up the stairs, avoiding the back corner of the step three from the top that creaked when pressure was applied. When she arrived at her room, undetected and triumphant, she dove the last few metres and collapsed into bed.

Her father removed himself from his post at the window overlooking the huge tree, made a note of the time, and did a quick calculation. With the amount of sleep his daughter had had during the night, he was sure she would find most of the work he had planned for the day too tiring. Hell, he would, but his restlessness, and insomnia was his own doing. Hers wasn't.

Maybe they'd go to Gungallen today, find some excuse, let her sleep in the car. And he'd pick up the letter he knew would be there, marked " i _Return to Sender /i "_. He had Bob hold them in town, so the small girl wouldn't find them. Though, to tell the truth he was more afraid of Meg's reaction.

* * *

The sun rose. The world once more seemed peaceful, hopeful, joyous even. The girl creeping from the shed was the same, but older. Bolder. Wiser. Not so naïve, more perceptive. She took the same path, pausing this time to quieten the dogs and grab some food from the refrigerator humming in the corner. 

Her dive into bed was much more practised these days. It had to be. Her added height could send her quite easily over the edge of her now double bed. He had surprised her with it, when she returned from boarding school one time. Her hands worked their way across the fading fabric, like they always did. One of the only reminders of her earlier years, the patchwork was made partially by her mother, in a fit of nesting, only days before her death. She had only the smallest, vaguest memory of that time, surrounded mainly in feelings- warmth, happiness and the sound of snipping fabric.

She doesn't recall it being finished. Not the process anyway. If she paused to think about it, she would probably have realised that it would have been done by Meg. Ruth had never been all that interested in the memory of her mother, or handiwork.

Once again, he stood at his window, a king lording over his kingdom. He'd noticed her return to old habits a few days earlier. He wasn't sure what had caused it, but since Jodi had returned to school, and she remained, his daughter's sleep was once more taken in the stables, or in the hale bales. He knew enough from his ex-wife to realise something was troubling her. Something was sending her back to the time when the family life she knew was shattered, and the only refuge she could find was hiding in a warm, small space, filled with happy memories, and animals who didn't judge when she talked, and comforted her when she cried.

* * *

The sun highlighted just the tips of the distant mountains. She was worried that she was too late. That he'd be up already, and her retreat back to bed would be noticed. She didn't want to run into him smelling the way she did. He might be surrounded by strong odours all day, but he was surrounded by them. He knew them. Knew just which of the men smelled like the exact mixture of sweat, cigarettes and wet dog that she did. She didn't want to explain, couldn't explain. She felt rather guilty, although she knew that there was nothing to feel guilty about. She was a grown woman, and all they'd done was sit around, drink beer and play cards. Hell, she'd done more risqué things while at the uptight boarding school she'd attended for six months before begging Jack to let her go somewhere else. 

She was relieved to find the house still shrouded in darkness. Her route changed when she got to the top of the stairs. Rather than sliding into bed for a few precious hours sleep like she had when she was younger, she headed straight to the bathroom. Wondering how much longer she could keep up these long days with a bare minimum of sleep, she turned the tap. Meg was already beginning to look at her strangely, commenting how drawn and white she looked.

Her father turned away from his customary place at the window, folding his blanket when he heard the water start. He decided to be a little slow in his routine this morning. Maybe he'd allow her longer in the shower, although she was very conscious of the drought they were currently in. He found himself considering a shorter day he had planned the previous evening, and stopped. He had trouble remembering she wasn't seven any longer. That she knew the consequences of staying out. 'Old habits and all that,' he thought to himself, returning to the bay window to pick up the two pillows he had moved there earlier that morning. He wasn't as young as he had been, all those years ago, when he'd first heard the creak of the step, and the patter of small feet, and gone to investigate. It seemed just yesterday, and yet so long ago all at the same time.

* * *

Jack never told that he knew about the nightly visits to the shed. He always kept an ear out, even when she was grown, and watched from his window for her return, long after any fear for her safety had disappeared. He knew in his heart that his little girl was grown, but sometimes his brain refused to believe. When he looked at her, he saw three visions, who she was before- the tiny girl who crept away because her father had enough of his own grief; who she was now- the strong, fiery woman who could hold her own against any of the men on the property, in more than just shearing, smart talk and bets; and the woman she might become- the proud woman who would love her place with her last dying breath, who would instil that love in her children, and their children, if she got the chance. His daughter, who was her mother and him, and her step-mother, and her grandmother and the woman who had raised her as her own, but most importantly she was herself. She would be Claire McLeod. Woman. Mother. Owner. Lover. Child. 

His child.

His daughter.

And although he never found the words, he hoped she knew. Hoped she knew just how proud she made him. Hoped she knew how much sunshine she bought into his life. And he hoped she knew just how much comfort he brought from the fact that his baby girl was alright. She was safe. And happy. And that made him feel as though, for once, he'd done the right thing by one of the women in his life.

She was his redemption.

His saviour.

His life.


End file.
